


My Name is Eliza

by HarrisonHolmes2014



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Death in Childbirth, Estrangement, F/M, Forgiveness, Holmes Siblings, Major Original Character(s), Third Holmes Sibling - Freeform, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian era, World Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-18 19:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7328029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrisonHolmes2014/pseuds/HarrisonHolmes2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One rainy October day in 1891, a grieving doctor named John Watson pays Eliza Huntington a visit, bringing news of Sherlock Holmes’ recent death. However, Eliza soon discovers that Sherlock is still alive, and she begins an odyssey across the world to bring the detective home, accompanied by John Watson and his wife Mary. But the journey that most tests Eliza is much more personal, and one she and Sherlock must take: a journey towards forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dr. John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> First-ever Victorian Sherlock fic. Please leave suggestions for editing if you wish!

Before I begin my story, allow me to say that I have always been one who enjoys surprises. The day-to-day tasks of an assistant schoolmistress can sometimes grow frustratingly dull. Every once in a while, I need something new to keep my brain from rotting, and nothing is better mental exercise than a good adventure.

So you may anticipate my interest when, on the fifth of October of 1891, a knock came at my door that heralded news of a death. My knowledge was a simple matter of deduction. I had already figured out just what I would hear by the time my landlady showed in the stranger bringing the news. He had all the proud bearings of a soldier: his prematurely lined face was serious and determined, his brown hair deliberately short, and his posture straight as a ruler. His fashionably cut overcoat suggested a man of the higher classes, and I attempted not to blush at the simplicity of my one-room flat, all that a schoolmistress can afford in London.

Before the man could even open his mouth, I said, “Well, sir, who has died?”

His brown eyes widened, then narrowed. “Someone told you I would be visiting, then?”

I smiled, setting down my pen on top of the botany tests I had been grading. “No, the information was all there in your arrival,” I told him. “Your knock was unusually short and to the point, a sure sign of important news. Your appearance gave me the key as to what kind of news it was. Generally, you seem to be in good health, but your face is pale and your eyes shadowed. These indicate some kind of serious message. Finally, you are wearing all black, even your waistcoat and the cuffs of your shirtsleeves, indication of the first mourning period. Put it together, and I conclude that the news you bring is of someone’s death.”

The man’s already pale face gradually grew whiter and whiter as I spoke. By the time I finished explaining my thought process, he had sunk weakly onto my spare chair, shaking his head. “You sound just like him,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “You definitely knew him, that would be the only explanation.”

“Who are you talking about?” I asked impatiently, though I thought I knew already from his comments.

The stranger sat up straight. From the stoic, grim expression, I knew he wished to state his news only once. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he could get words out. “I will be brief, miss,” he said. “My name is John Watson. I am a – ”

“A doctor, formerly serving in the British Armed Forces,” I finished. “Would you like me to explain that one as well?”

“No, thank you,” Dr. Watson replied. “I know how you got there, because a dear friend of mine once did the same thing.” There was a crack in his voice, an undeniable sign of great emotion. He took a deep breath, and a spasm of grief crossed his face. “As you know, I am here to inform you of a death,” he continued. “You have probably heard of Sherlock Holmes.”

My guess was correct, then. I kept a look of calm detachment on my face as I replied, “I have, Dr. Watson. I am not unfamiliar with your stories in the _Strand.” _I cleared my throat. “Well, let’s hear the worst.”__

____

____

Dr. Watson hesitated. His mouth had tightened into a thin line, and a light seemed to have gone out in the dark eyes. “He’s dead,” the doctor said quietly. “Sherlock Holmes is dead.”

Even though I knew, my mind still felt as if a gigantic hand had wiped it blank. Silence filled it, a sensation far different from the usual never-ending chorus of observations and thoughts. As if I was looking into a stranger’s mind, I observed the blankness of my emotions with a faint wonder as to why I was not reacting.

Poor Dr. Watson, on the other hand, shuddered with the effort of restraining himself. His head bowed, he took several deep breaths before looking back up at me. “I am sorry to have to break it to you so bluntly,” he said. “After all, I can tell from his will that you knew him.”

“Will?” I said dazedly.

Dr. Watson nodded and withdrew a folded paper from his coat pocket. “Holmes left most of his personal property to his older brother Mycroft,” he said, opening the will with shaking hands. “But he did leave you something.”

“Oh,” I said, wishing something better would occur to me.

“Yes. At first, we had no idea who you were; Holmes had not identified you by name. That is why it took us this long to find you.”

“When did he die?” I asked.

“In May, miss,” he answered. “Mycroft Holmes eventually worked it out and gave me your address, and permission to pass on your inheritance.” He paused and then added, so softly I could barely hear him, “He said his brother would have trusted me enough to do this.”

A vague interest managed to penetrate the haze of shock I was clouded in. “What did Sherlock leave me, Dr. Watson?”

Dr. Watson carefully set the will across his knees. He looked as if he would have liked nothing better than to throw it in the fire. “ ‘I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, being of sound and disposing mind, memory and understanding, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all wills and codicils at any time heretofore made by me,’ ” he read falteringly. “ ‘Item Three: To Miss E.V.A.H. I leave the sum of two hundred pounds in cash.’ ”

He pulled a check from his coat pocket and handed it to me without comment. Mycroft Holmes had signed it; I supposed he was now in charge of Sherlock’s personal finances. I stared at the check for a moment, still somewhat bewildered at my mind’s continuing silence.

When I said nothing, Dr. Watson cleared his throat again and said, “Holmes also left you a second bequest.”

“And what is that?”

Dr. Watson reached into his pocket once more and pulled out a small box. I opened it, and something gleamed in the lamplight. It was a ring, a simple gold band that looked almost like a wedding ring. I picked it up and held it for a moment, testing its weight in my hand. The inscription on the band flashed in the lamplight: “W.S.S.H. 6 Jan. 1865.”

“I never saw him wear that,” Dr. Watson said, staring at the ring for a long time. “We were flatmates, so naturally we had seen each other’s possessions. I don’t think I ever even saw it in the house.”

I tucked the ring into my skirt pocket without comment. My mind, so lately struck dumb, was suddenly awhirl with thoughts once more. The doctor’s eyes followed the ring’s disappearance, and I saw a question in the lines of his forehead and his contracted eyebrows.

“May I ask how Holmes knew you?” Dr. Watson finally said.

“You may,” I replied. “But you cannot demand an answer.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Suffice it to say, then, that I knew Sherlock, and I am very sorry to hear of his death,” I said shortly. “Now, if that is all…”

Dr. Watson correctly interpreted my dangling sentence. He stood and adjusted his overcoat, averting his dark eyes from me. He said, “It may help you to know that Holmes died a hero’s death. He rid this earth of possibly the greatest criminal mastermind ever to walk it.”

“Who?”

A shadow crossed Dr. Watson’s face. “One Professor Moriarty,” he snarled. “Part of me wishes Holmes had not killed him. Then I could take vengeance on him, and I would take pride in it.”

I managed a smile at this passionate outburst. “I can see you were a devoted friend of Sherlock’s, doctor,” I said. “I thank you for that.” I hesitated. “How was the funeral?”

“There was no funeral. We never found the…” Dr. Watson swallowed. “That is to say, we never found…well, him. Neither him nor Moriarty.”

“No body?” I supplied.

“No.” Dr. Watson looked as if he wanted to go, but a thought held him back. “You will not tell me your connection to Holmes, but may I at least know your name?”

We looked at each other for a moment, sizing each other up. He seemed a bit disconcerted, somehow. Possibly it was my eyes. His narrowed, slightly puzzled expression revealed that my eyes’ shape and clear, pale blue color were familiar to him, but he could not place it. I smiled at him.

“My name is Eliza, Dr. Watson,” I said.


	2. The Ring

The moment Dr. Watson left, I asked my landlady Mrs. Rathbone if she would mind leaving me be for a while. I lit a cigarette and sat at my small desk for a long time, looking at Sherlock’s ring and pondering the situation. My intuition kept whispering that something was odd here. For Sherlock to have died in what was apparently a great battle, and there to be no body at all, was too strange of a coincidence. I knew I could not take Dr. Watson’s word as gospel, so maybe the ring would give me a glimpse into the real truth.

I called Mrs. Rathbone back into my flat. She arrived five minutes later, puffing as usual from coming up the stairs, carrying a sauce-covered wooden spoon. “What is it, Miss Huntington?” she asked, her kindly old face concerned. For a landlady of a building catering primarily to lower middle-class tenants, she is very attentive and kindly when one is in trouble.

“Someone I know has supposedly died, Mrs. Rathbone,” I said, still gazing at the ring and disregarding the steady drip of alfredo sauce onto my floor.

“Oh, no!” she clucked sympathetically. “I am very sorry to hear it, love. Who was it?”

I did not answer. “There is a chance that it might not be true. I need your help.”

I have to hand it to Mrs. Rathbone: she immediately threw aside the dripping spoon, ready for action. “What can I do?”

“Take the spare chair, be quiet, and let me talk out my thoughts,” I said. I ground out my cigarette and held Sherlock’s ring close to the window my desk faces, using the streetlamp outside to help me see it better. I carefully examined it, both inside and out. A single dust-filled scratch streaked across the outside, and a fingerprint smudged the shining gold. I explained how this meant that its owner had not worn it in many years, but had touched it recently. Mrs. Rathbone merely nodded, as usual looking both unnerved and impressed.

I moved on to the ring box, wondering what its role in this little mystery was. When I opened it, I could see that the cushion where the ring had rested had been disturbed. There was a tiny gap between the right-hand side of the cushion and the wood. Intrigued, I carefully pulled the cushion out of its box and looked it over.

I let out a little cry of delight. “Mrs. Rathbone, look at this,” I exclaimed, beckoning her over. She peered over my shoulder at the back of the cushion. A message was scrawled on it:

† 882-C1-11 418-C1-91 432-C1-176

“What does it mean?” asked Mrs. Rathbone, mystified.

“It’s book code,” I replied. “The first number refers to a page in a book, and the second number to the word on the page.” Really, I was slightly disappointed: I had already worked out the puzzle.

“But it could be any book!”

“No, no, there are several hints in the message,” I said, scanning the bookshelf. “Large page numbers, the presence of columns indicated by the letter C, and the cross – an insultingly obvious hint – can only yield one book: the Bible.” I pulled it down and tossed it onto the desk.

“Wonderful!” cried Mrs. Rathbone. “Eliza Huntington, you should really think about becoming a detective!”

I smiled. “No, I prefer plants to bodies,” I said. “I think you have been helpful long enough. Thank you.” Still shaking her head in amazement, Mrs. Rathbone left my flat.

I rewrote the message onto a piece of scrap paper, leaving enough room for the words. It must have taken ten minutes at the most. The anagram took a little longer, but I worked it out eventually. After I was done, I sat at my desk for a moment and stared at what I had just written.

† = Bible

882-C1-11 = I  
418-C1-91 = AM  
432-C1-176 = ALIVE

Two days later, on a drizzly Monday afternoon, I found myself standing outside of Dr. Watson’s general practice. I reached into the pocket of my narrow skirt (I dislike and cannot afford those silly bustles), feeling the soft folded paper that was the solved message. Then, without further ado, I entered the building and introduced myself as Eliza Huntington, demanding to see the doctor.

When I was led into his office, he looked up at me with great surprise in his brown eyes. I noted that he was still wearing black. “Gracious, Miss Huntington, this is unexpected. What are you doing here?” he said, motioning to a chair.

“I have some news, Dr. Watson,” I said breathlessly. “Prepare yourself for a great shock, but also a great relief.”

“All right,” he said, giving me his full attention. “What is your news?”

I leaned forward. “Sherlock is alive,” I said triumphantly.

There was a pause. The very air seemed to quiver with the magnitude of my statement. From the way the doctor’s eyes blinked quickly and flickered about my face, I knew he was wondering if I had gone mad. “Excuse me?” he said.

“Sherlock is alive,” I repeated.

To my surprise, Dr. Watson looked rather angry. “Really, Miss Huntington, I am in no mood for jokes, and especially not ones about Holmes’ death,” he said curtly.

“This is no joke! It is the truth!” I snapped, furious at his refusal to take me seriously.

“He fell over a waterfall,” said Dr. Watson. “Now explain to me how anyone could possibly survive that!”

Red flared before my eyes. “No, Dr. Watson,” I growled, thrusting the decoded message into his hand. _“You _explain to_ me_ how a dead man could have written this.”

Dr. Watson glanced over the message. Even in the few moments it took to read it, his face whitened. At last the paper slid from his suddenly limp fingers and he slumped back in his chair. Thinking he had fainted, I dashed over to the bottle of brandy I saw on top of the bookcase. When I turned around, however, Dr. Watson was sitting up again, his face now in his hands. I waited, watching the hands twitching.

At last he looked up at me. “That bastard,” he muttered, his brown eyes wild. “Five months I have been grieving, and all this time he could have told me. One word was all I needed. That complete, utter _bastard.” ___

I ignored his mutterings. “He hid the message inside the ring box, and there was a fingerprint on the band,” I said, sitting once more. “It was recent. That means he is still alive.”

“He won’t be after I’m through with him!” cried the doctor.

“Spare me the overreactions and let me think!” I shouted. He jumped and immediately stopped his babbling. “Now, obviously there was some danger in letting anyone know,” I said more calmly. “Otherwise he would not have taken such elaborate precautions, though I must say they were fairly shoddy by his usual standards. Suggests to me that he’s hiding somewhere, for his own reasons.”

“Somewhere,” Dr. Watson repeated faintly.

“Yes. I have no idea where,” I confessed. “I need some more information before I can figure that out. I would never wish to twist facts to suit a theory. Were you with Sherlock when he supposedly died?”

“Not at the exact moment it happened, but yes, I was traveling with him,” Dr. Watson said gruffly.

“Good,” I said. “I need your help, doctor. Could you come round to my flat at eight on Friday evening? I need to hear exactly what happened as far as you know, and exactly what this Moriarty fellow had against Sherlock. That is the best starting point, I think.”

“Wait.” Dr. Watson’s face had hardened into a suspicious mask. “Why should I help you?”

This was not going to be as easy as I hoped. Trust issues make things so difficult. I stood up and looked him dead in the eyes. “You want to see Sherlock back again, yes?” I demanded.

“Of course I do,” he blustered.

“Well, I can accomplish that,” I said, pulling on my gloves. “But to do so, I will need your help.”

Dr. Watson stared at me for a long time. Again and again his dark eyes strayed to mine. His face was impassive, but his newly relaxed shoulders and unfolded arms betrayed an emotion key to gaining his assistance: hope.

“All right,” he finally conceded.

I smiled. “Thank you, Dr. Watson,” I said graciously. “Until Friday evening, then.” With that, I swept from the office, leaving the doctor to recover from his shock.

Back in my flat that night, I sat next to my fire for a long time, Sherlock’s ring in my hands. That morning I took the liberty of giving the ring a polish, and it gleamed like a star in the flames’ glow. It really was a lovely thing. Simple, just a gold band, but lovely all the same.

I sighed and walked over to the stand beside my bed. I looked in the small jewelry box next to my washbasin and found a single gold necklace chain inside it. After a moment’s hesitation, I slid the ring onto the chain and fastened it around my neck. Looking into my mirror, I thought for a moment about the woman who looked back: a lady more than common tall, with a heart-shaped face and cascades of wavy dark brown hair falling around her shoulders. I did not know if I liked the addition of the gold band to my reflection.

What bothered me about the situation had nothing to do with the facts. Life often throws surprises when one least expects it, so one must always be ready. Sherlock’s actions did not raise much outrage in me either. I never knew him to be too concerned about consequences, for himself or for others, so his refusal to tell his friend that he was alive did not surprise me. No, on the whole, what disturbed me most deeply about all of this was a question:

Why had Sherlock chosen to confide in me?


	3. A Proposition

My interview with Dr. Watson unearthed quite a sensational story. Sherlock had apparently toppled over a waterfall in Switzerland, taking the consulting criminal Professor Moriarty with him. It was a “death” that suited Sherlock’s penchant for drama so perfectly. I was set on determining where he went from there, for every day I heard news of cases that he could have solved in a matter of minutes. The sooner he got home, the better, and the one who brought him home would have to be me. But, I resolved to finish the school year and then resign from my assistant schoolmistress post. That would put my start date at summer 1892.

I was very lucky: when I came of age, I saved the inheritance from my parents. A shrewd and forward-thinking solicitor had helped ensure that the money remained in my name. However, I still needed something beyond my savings and salary, and my solution to the question of funds lay in my hobby. Every morning before school I took my flute into London’s streets and performed on corners, leaving my case open. Admittedly, even a normally laced corset makes proper breathing difficult, but my customers seemed neither to notice nor care. Several times, I was recruited to play for funerals, weddings, and lavish parties. To extend my earnings, I decided to shift my journey's start date from June to August.

Near the end of those ten weary months, on a blustery February afternoon, I sent Dr. Watson a telegram requesting a meeting with him and his wife. I repeated my own words in writing: “Sherlock Holmes is alive and I know how to find him STOP. Requesting assistance from both of you, if that is more convenient STOP. Eliza V.A. Huntington.”

A week passed before I received a response. The message was short and to the point.

15 February 1892

“Miss Huntington,

“Frankly, your proposition is quite ridiculous, given that Mary is expecting a baby STOP. However, I have spoken to her about it, and she is willing to at least hear your story STOP. To this end, we request your presence at our home at 9 p.m. Thursday STOP. Address is 1480 Holland Park Avenue STOP.

“Regards, Dr. John H. Watson.”

On the appointed evening, I presented myself at Holland Park Avenue, in my best pale blue dress and deeply conscious of the bustle wobbling behind me. Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the Watsons’ door.

To my relief, they had a maid. A squat girl of about twenty opened the door, her head tilted slightly to the side with curiosity at this stranger’s appearance. “I am here to see Dr. and Mrs. Watson,” I told her.

“Oh, yes,” she said, opening the door wider. “I shall let them know you are here.” As she exited the foyer, I stepped over the threshold, briefly taking in the Persian rug and gold-framed mirror, and hung my own coat behind the door. In such a room as this, my simple dress and undone, waving hair looked strikingly out of place. The bustle made me look especially ridiculous, I thought, but I needed to make a good impression. I combed my fingers through my hair in an unsuccessful bid to make it behave.

The maid reappeared and led me through to the sitting-room. Dr. Watson stood up from a chair beside the fireplace to acknowledge my presence. “Good evening, Miss Huntington,” he said, giving me a polite bow. “Thank you very much for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” I murmured. Feeling eyes on me, I gave the sofa a second glance. A woman of about Dr. Watson’s years sat there, watching me. She was not dressed for company: she wore a lavender nightgown and a white dressing-gown, with no corset at all. This casual dress was surely not a mistake, because she knew I would be visiting. Her long blond hair was tied into an elegant knot at the base of her neck, and her small hands lay folded in her lap. Just behind them, I could see the beginnings of a bulge underneath the dressing-gown.

“My wife, Mary,” Dr. Watson said, completely unnecessarily.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Watson,” I said. Out of respect for her higher status, I attempted a curtsy, which failed miserably: I staggered and had to grasp a nearby armchair for support. I caught a flicker of a smile on her face before it fell back into impassivity. I added, “As you must surely see, properly observing social niceties is not my strong suit.”

“So I have heard.” Mrs. Watson rose gracefully and approached me. Her face was serious, but the rest of her body was distinctly relaxed. I clearly intrigued her, and she wished to hear more from me, but she was trying not to reveal the fact. I was willing to play along.

“My husband showed me the telegram you sent him,” she said. “You have no sense of a woman’s modesty, Eliza Huntington.”

“I never did,” I said. “And even if I were more properly modest, I would not have let it impede me from speaking with your husband. What I have to say concerns him deeply.”

“Indeed. It also concerns you,” Mrs. Watson observed. “From what John has said, you knew Mr. Holmes rather…intimately.”

Her words were not a question. I looked into her sapphire eyes, and to my interest saw that they were alight with curiosity. She burned to know what I had to do with Sherlock, and according to her word choice, she had already formed a suspicion as to the nature of that relationship.

“Not in the way you suggest,” I said.

She smiled disbelievingly. “You wear his ring,” she answered, nodding at the gold band at my throat. “John described it to me. Only someone who knew Mr. Holmes in a certain way would wear his ring the way you do.”

“Relationships do not have to be romantic to deserve honoring.”

Mrs. Watson merely smiled. Forcing my temper under control, I continued, “I have confirmed that Sherlock lives. I am going to look for him, and it would be a privilege if you and Dr. Watson were to accompany me.”

“How do you know?” she asked me.

“Does it matter?” I said, impatience finally creeping into my voice. “The only topic of importance at this moment is my journey, and the possibility of your accompanying me.”

Mrs. Watson shook her head. “You have high expectations,” she said, sitting on the sofa once more. “Expectant women are not known for making long journeys.”

I tired of playing mind games with her. I moved towards her, looking directly into her eyes, drinking in details that would support my thoughts. I could not resist smiling. “No, they are not,” I conceded. “However, you are perfectly willing to flout convention, aren’t you, Mary Watson?”

“Oh, good Lord, here we go,” Dr. Watson muttered from the doorway. I ignored him, keeping my eyes on Mrs. Watson. Her face had paled slightly, but her tone was defiant.

“And what on earth makes you think that?” she said.

“Simple,” I said. “When I first entered the room and made my little comment about not observing social niceties, you smiled. That implies a woman who recognizes a kindred spirit, and thus one who does not strictly attend to social norms. Your casual dress suggests this as well. Women who do care would not greet a guest in their nightdresses and no corset, would they?”

“True.”

“Further, you gave me what appeared to be a scolding for my forwardness,” I continued. “At the same time, your face and shoulders were completely relaxed. They have remained so all throughout our conversation. When I mentioned you and Dr. Watson traveling with me, you leaned forward ever so slightly, indicating an interest in adventure. Conclusion: my proposition, and I, intrigue you so strongly that your need for social propriety takes second place. Dr. Watson,” I added triumphantly, “I believe you may now call me your traveling mate.”

Mrs. Watson laughed. “Wonderful, Miss Huntington,” she said. “You read me like a book. Mr. Holmes must have sounded something like you, from what John has told me of him.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the low light. But I felt sure I saw a gleam in the blue eyes, a knowing sort of shimmer. It made me uneasy. I turned to Dr. Watson, who still stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“You may leave the planning of routes and transportation to me,” I assured the Watsons. “I cannot leave England until this school year is over, so we will begin in August to allow for more funds to come my way. Unfortunately, the only way we can trace Sherlock is step by step. We will have to search for signs of him as we arrive at each place. However, I think I can form a theory as to the path he followed. Do you still have the key to your Baker Street flat?”

"Yes," replied the doctor.

“Excellent. We shall put it to good use,” I said. “Before we leave in August, I shall need to examine the flat.”

“Why?” asked Mrs. Watson.

“A person’s possessions reveal much about them,” I said, pulling my gloves from my bag. “If I can confirm what Sherlock is interested in these days, tracing him will be much easier. It will help me establish the most likely places he could have gone.”

Both Watsons shared a glance, but neither spoke. Then Dr. Watson turned to me and said, “Well, then, Miss Huntington, I suppose we shall see you soon. Let us know what is the most convenient moment for your examination of the flat.”

I nodded. “I shall send you a telegram once our first travel arrangements are made.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Watson, inclining her head to me. “Good evening, Miss Eliza Huntington.”

“Good evening.” I showed myself out, disregarding the burning of the Watsons’ eyes on the back of my neck.


	4. Baker Street

A week or two after my dinner with the Watsons, Dr. Watson and I paid Sherlock’s old rooms at 221B, Baker Street a visit. The landlady, a wizened old specimen named Martha Hudson, let us in when we called. “Goodness, Dr. Watson, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” she said, leading us up the stairs with an assuredness that only the lady of a house could have.

“Yes,” the doctor answered, glancing sideways at me. “This young lady here wishes to examine Holmes’ belongings.”

Mrs. Hudson paused at the door of 221B. The glance she gave me was incredible: it took in my hair and my eyes, my height and thinness, as though she was piecing together my identity. Suddenly self-conscious, I adjusted my hair so that it fell around my shoulders, hiding Sherlock’s ring from sight.

“And what interest does this ‘young lady’ have in Mr. Holmes?” she asked shrewdly.

I sighed. “I have recently come into a inheritance from Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, feigning confidence. “His elder brother Mycroft is allowing me to take what personal effects of his I wish.”

Mrs. Hudson’s dark eyes narrowed pointedly, but mentioning Mycroft’s name did the trick. She let me and Dr. Watson in without further questions. The tiny sitting-room smelled of dust, the scent of a long-uninhabited home. Mrs. Hudson shoved the long dark drapes open, throwing light on the chaos. Books, papers, and empty tobacco and cigarette cases were scattered across the entire place, as though Sherlock had just walked out of it for the day.

“I have not rented it out,” the landlady explained, coughing slightly from the curtain’s expelled dust clouds. “Mr. Holmes did me a great personal favor once, and for his sake I have left all of his things untouched.”

“I am very glad you did, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, my eyes on the bookshelves. “You may leave us now.” She nodded politely, and exited the flat.

I turned to Dr. Watson. The poor man’s face was oddly strained as he glanced around the room. Obviously the memories he held of his own times in this place were returning to him. However, we had to get started. “Doctor,” I said quietly. When he did not respond, I added softly, “Remember what Sherlock has taught you: sentiment only distracts from clues.”

He gave his head a small shake, and smiled grimly. “Right,” he said. “Let’s begin.”

“We must search for patterns in the books he owned,” I said, walking over to the bookshelf by the fireplace. “So far, we know that he began his journey in Meiringen. After that, where would he go next? The books will reveal something about his interests, which will naturally lead us to…?”

“Places he would have liked to see,” Dr. Watson finished, standing beside me and gazing up at the books.

“Yes,” I said. It was difficult to conceal how impressed I was that he made the leap. “Now, sort the books according to subject. That will narrow our search considerably.”

And so, the tedious work began. Dr. Watson and I pulled book after book from Sherlock’s shelves. Books on chemistry and physics, beekeeping and cat-care manuals, dictionaries and map anthologies, Buddhist religious texts, art history textbooks, manuals on violin technique and composing…carefully we sorted them all into piles, each stack growing steadily larger as darkness descended and the streetlamps outside flickered into life.

At last all of the books were accounted for. Easily the largest stack, aside from the beekeeping books, was the collection of books on Buddhism. However, I decided to start with the second-largest stack: the art and art history texts. I turned to Dr. Watson, whose dark moustache was lightly coated with dust. “He was a great art lover,” I said, gesturing at the stack that rose almost to my midriff.

“I never knew it,” Dr. Watson admitted quietly. “Music, I was aware of, but never visual art.”

I smiled. I had known that, and thus the presence of the art books did not surprise me. “And look here,” I added, pulling a few of the books off the top of the stack. _“A Compendium of Italian Renaissance Paintings and Statuary; Filippo Brunelleschi’s Gothic Cathedral; The Life and Work of Michelangelo; The Medici Family Art Collection,” _I read. I beamed, looking up at the doctor. “Do you see a connection, Dr. Watson?”__

He gazed at the selected volumes, scattered around me where I sat beside the stack. His dark eyes darted from cover to cover, but I saw no spark of understanding in them. “I am afraid not, Miss Huntington.”

“Goodness, you are culturally deprived,” I scolded. “Filippo Brunelleschi designed the Cathedral of Florence. The Medici Family ruled Florence during the Italian Renaissance, and Michelangelo was their protégé. And, as if that were not enough to establish a connection, the section on Florentine art in this anthology is marked.”

“So you believe Holmes’ interests led him to Florence after Switzerland?”

“This is the second-largest stack, doctor,” I said, setting the four books back down. “I believe it is a reasonable deduction.

“Now, let us move on to this stack,” I said. The stack of texts on Buddhism was even taller: it rose level with my chest. “Obviously, he had a strong interest in this religion,” I told Dr. Watson, my hand on the teetering stack of books. “Here we have copies of _Religious Texts of Tibetan Buddhism, A History of Buddhism Around the World, _and_ The Road to Enlightenment: Application of Buddhist Theory to Daily Living._ Plus, I count at least three biographies of the current head Lama in Lhasa. What does that suggest?”

Now Dr. Watson was smiling, a skeptical look in his eye. “Are you telling me that Holmes went to Tibet?”

“Yes, I believe he did. He has always been fascinated by Buddhist ideas. He and I held regular discussions on that topic many years ago.”

In my enthusiasm, I had let another hint slip. The doctor glanced at me, curious. “I assume it will be of no use whatsoever to ask in what context you and Holmes discussed Buddhism?” he said.

“You assume correctly.” To cover the sticky moment, I began reshelving the books. “Well, it is a place to begin,” I said, replacing _The Medici Family Art Collection. _As I did, a small paper fell out from between the pages. Before the doctor could spot it, I picked it up and gave it a glance. It was in Sherlock’s small, tightly cramped writing.__

To the woman who locates this note (for only one will): Here begins a trail. Its next stop lies under heavy judgment.

I had no time to ponder it now. Carefully, I folded it and put it in a pocket of my skirt. “It will be wise, I believe, for us to begin the search for Sherlock in Florence,” I continued. "If we are lucky, the trail will eventually lead us to Tibet.”

“And if it does not?” said Dr. Watson quietly as he replaced _The Road to Enlightenment. ___

“Let me put it this way, doctor,” I said, closing the dusty curtains. “I can only remember one occasion on which my instincts were wrong.” For a moment, the face of a man different from Sherlock swam hazily to the front of my mind. I had not thought of him in several years, but the memory still made my throat burn with rage. Evidently my hatred was still smoldering inside of me. I banished him with a mental diatribe of my choicest curses.

“You really, truly think you can bring him back?” Dr. Watson said suddenly, breaking this melancholy flow of thoughts.

“Yes, I do,” I told him. “But this is a matter of trust. I need you to have faith in me if I am to succeed.”

“Will you answer me one question, Miss Huntington?” he said.

“It depends what you ask.”

He looked at me for a moment. The lamp we had lit threw strange, dancing shadows on his face, making the lines stand out even more. “Why do you want to find Holmes?” he asked. “Why do you yourself want to take it on? You could just tell the police and let them handle it.”

“Do you really think London’s police could trace Sherlock Holmes when they cannot even solve a crime in their own backyard?”

“No.”

“Well, then, there you have my reason,” I said, getting up to close the curtain. “I see the state of things without Sherlock, and I know I can remedy it, so I will. I am doing my country an enormous favor.”

“But patriotism is not the only factor, is it?” Although my back was turned to Dr. Watson, I could easily hear the curiosity in his voice. “I may not be brilliant at deductions, but it is obvious to me that you want to look for him for other reasons. Am I right, Miss Huntington?”

I did not speak. I would rather tear out my tongue than rehash the unfortunate events of my past. Sherlock’s face seemed to loom out of the night, his light blue eyes flashing as if he knew what I was thinking. And loathed me for it. I pulled the curtains shut, but that did not clear the vision.

“I am sorry, Dr. Watson,” I said at last, bowing my head. “I cannot tell you my other motives tonight. One day, you will know everything, I promise. But tonight, all I can do is reassure you that I do not mean Sherlock any harm.”

I turned back to Dr. Watson. His face was impassive, though his dark eyes were narrowed slightly. I did not break the silence between us. He needed time to decide whether or not he was going to respect my wishes.

Finally he spoke. “Very well,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I cannot force you to tell me. I shall content myself with your answer…for now.”

As we turned to leave the Baker Street flat, I dwelled on something that Dr. Watson had missed. Sherlock’s violin was not in the flat. Had he died, it would have found its way back from Switzerland to here. The violin’s absence, as if I needed it, was confirmation of my beliefs. He was far too close to the instrument, to music, to not take it with him if he had to leave England. I smiled, recalling how he used to play it: with a gentleness and loving touch I have not yet seen him use with a person. With a true musician’s touch.

No true musician would even dream of leaving his (or her) instrument behind.


	5. On the Trail

Immediately after our search of the Baker Street flat, I began preparations for my journey with the Watsons. It was a complex affair, involving the purchase of several train tickets and boat passage. My route would take us from London to Dover, to Calais by boat, and to Florence from Calais by train. I kept the Watsons well informed of my progress, and of the date we would begin: August 8th.

The trip began more smoothly than anyone could have asked. The London-Calais leg was favored by clear, calm weather, and we arrived at the train to Florence with twenty minutes to spare. When I tried to place my luggage in the rack above us, Dr. Watson silently took my bag and flute and did it for me, like a true gentleman.

As the French countryside blasted past us, its olive-green hills shifting suddenly to snowcapped mountains, I shared Sherlock’s note with the Watsons. John read it with narrowed eyes. “ ‘Its next stop lies under heavy judgment’?” he said. “What on earth could that mean?”

“Something to do with Florence, no doubt, as that is where we are going,” Mrs. Watson said evenly. A small smile curved her lips, one that I could not help returning.

“Precisely,” I said, taking the slip of paper back. “As we discovered in Baker Street, Dr. Watson, Sherlock had a vested interest in the art and architecture of Florence. We also know that this paper is part of a trail. Sherlock and I used to play a game like this, hiding each other’s belongings and making trails of clues that led to the hiding places. I believe this trail begins in Florence, and that it will lead directly to him.”

In my excitement of beginning the investigation, I had revealed a little too much. Mrs. Watson smiled even wider and said, “Bit of an odd pastime for lovers.”

When will this woman ever learn to accept that she is wrong? “It would be an odd pastime, yes, had we been lovers,” I answered coolly. “So, that only leaves the clue: ‘heavy judgment.’ What is the heaviest judgment either of you can think of?”

Dr. Watson smiled mischievously. “Having my wife think too little of me,” he said, taking Mrs. Watson’s hand.

I refrained from raising my eyes to the heavens, but with some difficulty. “Come now, Dr. Watson, this is a serious affair,” I scolded him, though I was trying not to laugh. “Give me an answer in earnest.”

The two Watsons thought for a moment. Then, the doctor said, in a tone that indicated fear of ridicule, “Well, there is the Last Judgment. The day when our worldly deeds are reviewed by God and we are found worthy – or unworthy – of joining heaven.”

I nodded. “I, though I have never been religious, would call that a heavy judgment indeed,” I said. “In my researches, I have found several depictions of the scene in Florence. But there is only one that you can pass under: the dome of Florence Cathedral. I believe our search must start there.”

We arrived in Florence that night, and decided to begin the search tomorrow morning. When that morning arrived, I threw open the shutters to my room and drank in the sights. Cobblestone streets swirled far into the distance, lined with stone and brick shops and flats. The Cathedral’s round, reddish-brown dome towered above the other buildings. Even from my fourth-floor room, I could hear a costermonger calling out in Italian: _“Frutta, frutta in vendita! Mele, arance, limoni, olive, frutta in vendiata!” _I drank it all in, reveling in the fact that for the first time in my life, I was in another country.__

The Watsons and I visited the Cathedral late in the morning. If not for Mrs. Watson, whose rudimentary grasp of Italian was more than Dr. Watson or I could boast, we would never have found our way through the narrow, mazelike streets. I felt my breath catch in my chest as we went through the door and a sacred hush fell over us. Towering white stone arches gracefully soared towards the heavens. Above the heart of the Cathedral, I glimpsed a shimmer of gold.

“Goodness,” Mrs. Watson whispered as we walked beneath the dome.

Seemingly a hundred feet above us, an octagonal painting in rich hues of gold, pink, and cream cast a glow on our faces. Squinting, I could see images of the Last Judgment. Angels, saints, and the true Christians being rewarded with heaven inhabited the upper rims. Below, along the lower rims, devils and the depraved blazed in brilliant crimson fire. The mere sight of it made me conscious of my own smallness, compared to its size.

“He left the clue here,” I muttered, more to myself than either of the Watsons. “Somewhere here…”

“We should split up and search,” suggested Dr. Watson.

The three of us walked in different directions beneath the great painting. Mrs. Watson wandered among the wooden pews, while the doctor examined the walls along the sides of the dome’s base. They, of course, were searching in the wrong places: the clue clearly stated “under,” not “nearby.” However, I appreciated their help, so I held my tongue. I carefully placed a foot on each stone, wondering if there was perhaps a loose one in the floor.

Apparently Mrs. Watson had the same idea, for she let out a joyful cry that resounded through the Cathedral. “Miss Huntington, here,” she said, tapping a stone in the floor with her toe. It was not directly under the painting’s center, but it was a mere three stones away from the central one. Carefully, I lifted it up just enough to reach under it. Dr. Watson pulled a small slip of paper from beneath the stone, and we all crowded around to read it.

Search Moses’ sands, and his stones, for your next step.

“Egypt,” said Dr. Watson. When I glanced at him in surprise, he said, “Moses was born and raised there, of course.”

“Of course,” I replied, my mind already occupied with the next part of the message. “And the most famous stones in Egypt would probably be the pyramids.”

“So to Cairo it is, then,” said Mrs. Watson. She smiled and added, “You will have to find another translator, I am afraid. I have a little Italian, but Egyptian is well beyond my range.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of the Florentine costermonger's words: "Fruit, fruit for sale! Apples, oranges, lemons, olives, fruit for sale!"


	6. A Matter of Trust

The Watsons and I arrived in Egypt at the end of September. Travel to Egypt had reached its peak, and we were unable to book a train until then. We spent the intervening weeks traveling Italy, exploring Rome and Venice, Sicily and Tuscany. With Mrs. Watson’s assistance, my Italian shifted from nonexistent to passable. By the time our ship left Rome for a four-night journey to Egypt, I realized I would miss this land of art and fantastic food.

After a short train ride from Alexandria, we arrived in Cairo. It was a town filled with history and a sense of the ancient, even as modern ships steamed past on the Nile. Cairo was also a dusty town, continuously bathed in sand. My hair, normally a rich, dark brown, virtually turned blonde from all the sand blown into it. Mrs. Watson also complained of breathing in more sand than a desert snake.

We spent the first day in Cairo exploring this exotic town. Like Florence’s streets, the byways of Cairo twisted and turned in an impossible maze. Some of the streets were barely more than paths carved into the sand. Tattered curtains of bazaars and merchant stands whispered in the wind, which wafted smells of figs and rich spices up to my window. Our first night in Cairo, I stayed up well past midnight, watching other late-night revelers winding past on camels and donkeys as ships drifted onto the Nile from the small harbor.

Following Sherlock’s instructions, the Watsons and I paid a visit to the Giza pyramids, whose points were visible from Cairo. Tucked inside a small crack in the largest pyramid, I found the final clue: “Water shall bring you forward on the path to enlightenment.” From this, I concluded that we would need to take a boat as close to Tibet as possible. I selected the seaport Mumbai, India, and purchased the cheapest tickets I could for the next ship out. To our great fortune, a steamer was leaving the dock tomorrow and would reach Mumbai in roughly two weeks, via Suez and the Red Sea.

My travels with the Watsons had taken us to more places than I had ever imagined seeing. And yet, my thoughts kept straying to faraway Tibet, where I knew Sherlock was hiding. I had no idea what I would say to him when the Watsons and I showed up at his door, most likely with a baby in tow, but I figured I would work that out a bit later. The most important thing right now was getting to Tibet without anyone finding out who we were looking for.

Dr. Watson had not asked me about my connection to Sherlock for a long time. Nevertheless, he began the assault again the night before our journey from Cairo to Mumbai. I had hoped to be left alone, due to my unfortunate running out of cigarettes that morning; I had no replacements, as Egyptian cigarettes were ridiculously expensive. But Mrs. Watson was sleeping and the doctor insisted on “keeping me company” anyway. As we sat beside the fire in my hotel room, with me brooding again over what might happen when we found Sherlock, Dr. Watson (as is his habit) interrupted my thoughts.

“Miss Huntington,” he said, clearing his throat, “we have been working and traveling together for a while now, correct?”

“Two months, I think,” I said.

“And you really think you’re on the right track to finding Holmes?”

It must have been the millionth time he asked me. But, as usual, I could not help being moved by the carefully contained hope in his voice. “Yes, I do,” I replied reassuringly, yet again. “I have told you, if anyone in this world is capable of finding Sherlock Holmes, it would be me.”

“I believe you, after seeing the way you work,” the good doctor said. “However, I cannot help thinking you don’t trust us at all.”

“I beg your pardon? I have asked you and Mrs. Watson to go with me, taken both of you into my confidence.”

“Only to a point. You have been careful to tell us nothing about your past,” Dr. Watson said. “We don’t know what your connection to Holmes is, and you have flatly refused to tell us anytime the subject has arisen. You could very well be one of Moriarty’s people, out to finish the job, and using me and my wife for information.”

“And yet, in spite of your nagging doubts, you feel an inexplicable faith in me,” I observed. “If you really did not, you would not be here right now. Of course, the fact that you have a little hope left in you helped you make that choice, too.”

“Sometimes it’s like Holmes is sitting right here with me, the way you talk,” he said, shaking his head. He sounded irritated, but there was a hint of a smile playing around his lips.

“I take that as a compliment,” I said. “Believe me, if I wanted to kill Sherlock, I would have done it by now. I have no interest in harming him.”

“Then why?” The question was put to me so simply. “I think it’s time for you to answer, Eliza Huntington. After all,” he added dryly, “we have trusted you.”

I had no idea what to say to him. I was grateful for the Watsons’ company and assistance, but I was not sure if Dr. Watson was ready for what I would have to tell him. I did not even know if I was ready myself. But it would have to come out eventually. There was only so long I could keep it from my companions.

“All right,” I said, facing Dr. Watson. “After tonight, you will have no more cause to suspect my motives. You and Mrs. Watson are both aware that I was close to Sherlock.”

He nodded. “You call him by his first name. You must have known him very well.”

“Oh, yes.” I sighed. “You have also mentioned my methods. My deductions. I suppose you could say it runs in our family.”

There was a small pause. “Family?” he said shortly.

“You heard me, Dr. Watson,” I said, pulling a ring out of my skirt pocket. It was very similar to Sherlock’s, except that it was smaller and had my initials and birthdate – “E.V.A.H. 17 May 1863” – carved into the gold. I undid the chain around my neck and passed both of the rings to Dr. Watson. He did not react; he simply looked at them.

“Mycroft Holmes has a ring like this too,” I said, taking the two rings back. “When each of us came of age, our parents gave us a gold ring with our initials and birthdate engraved in the band. It’s an old family tradition.”

Even by the low light of the fire, I could see that the doctor’s face had paled. “So you’re…”

“My maiden name is Eliza Victoria Annabelle Holmes,” I confessed. “Sherlock is my brother.”

Dr. Watson could not have looked more stunned if I had slapped him. For a long time, we sat in silence. I maintained it, letting him absorb the news. Dr. Watson’s sad brown eyes flickered across my face, and I knew they were searching for similarities to his friend. His eyes rested on mine rather longer than on any other feature.

Finally he spoke, and there was nothing but shock in his voice. “A sister,” he muttered, clasping his hands, more to himself than anything. “A _sister. _Why he never told me…”__

It was such a naïve statement that I could not help myself. I burst into laughter. Once I got going, it was hard to stop. “Of course I’m his sister, doctor,” I said, wiping my eyes. “When I spoke to you and Mrs. Watson in your flat, she thought I was romantically involved with Sherlock. You have both since learned I was not. Who else but family would be so interested in finding him? As for Sherlock never telling you, do you even know the man at all?”

Dr. Watson glared at me. It was such a dangerous look, full of rage and impatience, that my laughter died away. “Sometimes I wonder that myself,” he growled. “It took him long enough to admit a relationship to Mycroft, and he never once mentioned a third Holmes.”

“Well, even if we’d had no falling-out, it would have taken you years to learn about me,” I said more seriously. “My brothers and I are very private, Sherlock most of all.”

“And you had a falling-out with them?” I could tell from his tone that he was intrigued.

“I did, yes.” I paused, and for the first time since the rift began, I felt a tiny prick of the old pain in my heart. Strange…I thought I had stuffed all of that pain into the darkest corner of my mind. The one where people hide things they do not want to see. God knows I have tried.

Dr. Watson sensed my discomfort. To my great surprise, he reached over and put his hand on mine, almost as if it were a reflex. I glanced at his hand, wondering what Mrs. Watson would think.

Apparently he thought of her too. He instantly removed his hand. “You don’t have to tell me about it now,” he said, half awkwardly, half gently.

“No.” I swallowed, trying to push the sudden pain back to where it had been imprisoned. “No, it’s better you know everything before we find Sherlock. I would rather tell you myself than hear him do it.”

Dr. Watson allowed a rueful smile to pass across his face. Then he said, “Whenever you are ready, Miss Holmes.”

I hesitated. Then, after six years of silence, I began.


	7. The Third Holmes

“Sherlock, Mycroft and I all grew up in London,” I told Dr. Watson. “We shared the same natural inclination towards logic and observation. Mycroft sometimes used to say that we three were dolphins in an ocean of goldfish. My parents had two other children, two daughters: Eurus, three years older than Mycroft; and Violet, two years younger than Mycroft. But I never knew Violet, and I barely remember Eurus. Violet died of influenza as an infant, and Eurus..." I paused. "Well, Eurus was always on the fragile side, and when she was fifteen she...ran into trouble. She was to have a baby, and...it was not exactly a result of a proper relation between a boy and a girl."

"Ah," said Dr. Watson, suddenly looking rather uncomfortable. 

"Eurus had the baby, but it died in the process. Mycroft told me she was never the same afterwards," I said. "I was only seven years old, so I did not truly understand it, but she began to have strange fits of sadness, and odd bursts of mania. My parents sent her to an asylum outside London - they had no other choice - but she died there after only a year. I do sometimes wonder what having a sister would have been like, as well as being one. From what Mycroft has said, Eurus was very like me and my brothers, and I suspect Violet would have been too.

“What happened to Eurus took its toll on Mycroft. He was quite close to her," I said. "But because of it, Mycroft was a good brother to both me and Sherlock. As I would later be to Sherlock, Mycroft was guardian and role model to me. It was he who first taught me that observation can be a useful skill, mainly for figuring out what I was to receive for Christmas and my birthday. When I began school, it was useful having a brother five years my senior: Mycroft was strapping, even as a boy, and no one dared annoy his sister.

“I’m two years older than Sherlock, with Mycroft seven years older,” I continued. “Our parents tried to get us to make friends with other children, but Sherlock, Mycroft, and I were content with each other. We spent our time out on London’s streets: making up experiments and adventures, making our trails of clues, spying on the neighbors. We constantly tested each other’s observations, correcting flaws in our logic. What good would our gifts have been had we not developed them?”

Dr. Watson smiled. I knew he had probably never heard much about Sherlock’s early years, and he clearly liked hearing my memories. “You must have had some difficult times with him, though,” he said. “Siblings cannot possibly get along all the time.”

“Well, yes,” I conceded. “We sometimes took great pleasure in driving each other mad, especially Sherlock. Mycroft had reached adolescence by the time Sherlock was old enough to be truly mischievous, so they were always on each other’s nerves. There were days when I threatened to lock them both in a room if they kept at it, or continued annoying me. But most of the time, we three were the best of friends.

“It was difficult for us when Mycroft left to go to school at eighteen,” I said. “I became the one in charge of my younger brother. It was quite a lot of responsibility for a thirteen-year-old, but I was happy to take it on. Sherlock and I shared a lot of things in that period: secrets, fears, hopes for the future. During our adolescence, I also became his only protector, when I could. The boys at his school gave him hell every day. He had to learn Japanese wrestling just so he could have some peace. That was when he started taking cocaine, too, when I was seventeen.”

“Good God,” the doctor said.

I smiled sadly. “Mycroft and I could never convince Sherlock to stop using the cocaine, though we certainly had our fights over it. Eventually both of us threw up our hands and said he could make that decision for himself. But, that aside, our troubles brought us even closer. When Oxford offered me a full-tuition scholarship, to study botany, my brothers helped me convince our parents to let me attend. I actually cried for an hour the day I arrived at university. I knew that I had left Sherlock behind with no friends, and the thought broke my heart.

“He knew I was upset, too, even from a distance,” I said. “Each of us could always tell when something was wrong, no matter how hard we tried to hide it. Four days after I left, I got a letter from him. He wrote that I should not make a fool of myself over such a silly thing as separation, especially since ours would not last forever.” I paused, fighting the rush of memories of what my brothers and I had once shared.

“So what happened?” Dr. Watson asked kindly.

“Two years after I began at Oxford, Sherlock followed me, wanting to study chemistry,” I said. “Mycroft had already begun working, as a secretary in the War Office, but he visited every weekend. There were many nights when we stayed up practically until dawn, talking about our classes, studying, mocking the other students and Mycroft’s less intelligent coworkers. When I graduated, I stayed in Oxford town to start my teaching career, working as a tutor for the primary school. But the summer after my graduation, _he _came into our lives.”__

My hands shook. I stopped speaking, cursing the strange emotional weakness I was suffering from tonight. “Who?” asked Dr. Watson.

“His name was Andrew Huntington,” I said bitterly. “He was one of the most promiscuous men in the entire town. Every other week a new woman was the queen of his heart, and of his bed too. I should have known I would be one of his targets eventually.

“Both Mycroft and Sherlock made their dislike for Andrew quite obvious, but Sherlock more so,” I said quietly. “Every time Andrew spoke to him, he would sneak in little references about Don Juan types and sarcastic comments about how glad he was that his sister was not in love with one. When Andrew proposed to me, and I accepted, Mycroft was displeased; Sherlock was furious. He said that I would be better off a spinster than married to a man who valued nothing more than my body.

“That was the worst fight I ever had with him,” I said. “Both of us said things to each other that we normally never would have dreamed of saying. Such as my telling Sherlock that he could not possibly understand my feelings for Andrew, since no one had yet deemed him worthy of love.”

I stopped, remembering the heartbreaking look on Sherlock’s face when I claimed that: a vaguely sad, but resigned acknowledgement of the truth. “I knew his assessment of Andrew was true, of course,” I said. “But, for the first and last time, I disregarded my brother’s words.”

“Why?” Dr. Watson asked.

“I chose to be blind,” I said. “I was seized by an emotion that, thank God, has never touched Sherlock: infatuation. I managed to convince myself that Andrew had turned a new leaf for me, and that Sherlock was faking observations out of overprotectiveness. Andrew and I married just as I received an invitation to become the primary school’s head botany teacher.

“From the moment of my marriage, Sherlock began to turn his back on me,” I said. “He was still polite enough, but gone were the talks that lasted for hours on end, the games of deduction. Mycroft too began to distance himself, though the effect was not quite as noticeable as it was with Sherlock. The distance worsened when Andrew talked me into turning down the job offer, thus giving up my career, so that I could spend more time at home. Andrew was hoping for a child, and he thought I should start practicing. I never did have a child; naturally, he blamed me. I discovered later that he was impotent, some small satisfaction once the relationship broke apart.

“When it turned out that we were having no child anytime soon, Andrew went back to his usual tricks,” I said with a bitter smile. “He only proposed to me because he was afraid of what Sherlock and Mycroft might do to him if he abandoned me. But once we were married, I could not stop his behavior without drastic action. I finally gave in to the inevitable and left my husband when I was twenty-three.”

Dr. Watson let out a gasp. “Yes, walking out on a marriage is an unusual thing,” I said. “And for the wife to do the leaving…it caused quite a scandal. No one save for my brothers and I knew what Andrew was, and I was too proud to admit my error, even to our parents. In fact, they were so horrified that as soon as the gossip around me began, they disowned me. The only bright side was that Andrew began living with his mistress and did not pursue me.”

I paused. Now I was coming to the worst part. “I had no income of my own anymore, and I was just beginning a search for a new job,” I said. “However, Sherlock had already left Oxford and was making some money solving local crimes. I hoped that he might find some pity in his heart for me.

“I was gravely mistaken,” I said bluntly. I looked into the fire so that Dr. Watson might not see the sudden tears in my eyes. “Sherlock thought that as I had brought my fate on myself, I should have to deal with the consequences alone.” For the first time in many years, my brother’s voice echoed in my head: _You threw away your mind, your future, for a repulsive snake posing as a man. No sister of mine would ever have stooped so low. ___

I stopped to take a deep breath and pull myself together. “Instead of lending me money, he threw me out of his flat,” I continued. “So, I asked Mycroft. He gave me fifty pounds to start my life as a single woman, and then he told me to leave and not speak to him again. He too believed I had failed myself more than Andrew had failed me.

“Our last contact was a short letter telling me that Sherlock had written him. Sherlock wanted nothing to do with Mycroft anymore because he helped me. Apparently he thought Mycroft should have left me to my fate as well. They have been estranged ever since.”

“I did wonder what happened between them,” Dr. Watson said quietly.

“I tried to contact Sherlock after our last conversation, many times,” I said shakily. “But he ignored every message, and I eventually gave up. I suppose I really should’ve known better.”

“But you still had a little hope left in you,” the doctor supplied.

“Yes,” I said softly. I looked away from him, back into the dying fire, closing my eyes until the tears went away. “In accordance with my brothers’ wishes, I have not seen either of them since Mycroft gave me the money. I became an assistant schoolmistress, and as far as anyone knows, that is all I am. I still use my married name, Huntington, to prevent awkward questions. As for Sherlock…well, I don’t think anyone who has met him in the past six years knows that Eliza Holmes exists.”

My story finished, I let the silence stretch between me and Dr. Watson. He seemed afraid to ask more. Finally he stood. “Thank you for telling me all this, Miss Holmes,” he said. There was a strange gleam of anger in his eye. “Rest assured, when we do find your brother, I will have a few questions to ask him as to why he treated you so badly.”

“No, Dr. Watson,” I said firmly. “I would really prefer it if you stayed out of it.”

“But he had no reason to act as drastically as he did towards you!” he protested.

“We all make mistakes, don’t we, especially when we’re young? Please, doctor,” I implored, seeing that he was about to argue. “Any problems that Sherlock and I need to resolve are our problems, and ours alone.”

He sighed. “Very well,” he said resignedly. “I should have guessed sooner that you were related to Holmes. You are just as hardheaded as he is.”

Dr. Watson turned to go, but he paused in the doorway. He looked back at me for a moment. “And you have the same eyes,” he observed. “I knew there was something familiar about you. I don’t know how I never noticed it before.”

“Something like that should be an elementary clue,” I murmured as Dr. Watson exited the room.


	8. The Death of Mary Watson

The Watsons and I arrived in Mumbai on the 12th October, to a bustling seaport bursting with color. Brilliant dishes in every shade of red, green, gold lay on tables in every restaurant. Women strode around in saris as bright and vibrant as the food. In the distance I could see the jungle, a bright green jewel draped in mist. And the sunsets were fantastic, blazes of shell pink and orange transforming the smoky city skies into swaths of fire.

Upon first glance, India was beautiful, but events would soon tarnish my memories of it forever. Barely an hour after we had climbed ashore, Mrs. Watson stood from the hotel bed and immediately doubled over, hands at her huge abdomen. “John,” she muttered, raising a face transformed with panic.

Dr. Watson hissed out a few choice expletives and shuffled his wife out of the room. I scurried out after them, wanting to help and unsure of how I could. Already I could see a large damp spot in the back of her skirt. We managed to hail what passed for a cab, a small cart pulled by a swaybacked donkey, outside the hotel. Mrs. Watson’s whole body shuddered as she climbed in and we raced towards the nearest hospital. Dr. Watson’s face had turned the color of parchment, and unseen by Mrs. Watson, I gave his hand a squeeze to comfort him. He was apparently grateful for this, for he returned the pressure with the smallest of smiles.

The hospital was small and run-down, but clean enough. Dr. Watson and I hurried Mrs. Watson inside. I could only imagine the pain she must have been feeling as we helped her stagger down the halls to a ward. To her credit, she was very strong and brave, only allowing the smallest of groans to escape her. Two nurses helped her get situated, and Dr. Watson and I retired to the outer hall.

Our wait was agonizing. Each hour seemed to pass with feet of lead, accompanied only by shrieks that I knew were Mrs. Watson’s. The poor doctor paced constantly, alternately holding his head in his hands and shoving them in his pockets, a sheen of sweat making his face look silvery in the low lamplight. I sat in a tattered wicker chair, feeling his pain like knives to my chest, but helpless to do anything. Finally, after the entire night had gone by, one of the nurses came running towards us. I nearly swooned at the sight of her: her hands and the front of her blouse were scarlet with blood.

Frantically, she seized Dr. Watson by the arm and dragged him back down the long hall, me trailing behind. I could not hear their whole conversation, but the word “hemorrhage” reached my ears and made my blood run cold. I had no friends who had given birth, but well did I recall the horror story about my sister Eurus, who nearly bled to death bringing her unwanted child into the world. If what the nurse was saying was true, Mrs. Watson would not live long enough to name her own child. Looking down to hide the tears in her eyes, the nurse opened the door for us.

Mrs. Watson lay on the bed, seemingly drowning in a pool of her own blood. Her blonde hair tumbled around her white, drawn face in sweat-drenched strands. Her chest rose and fell laboriously, even as it struggled to move. And there, at the bedside, stood the second nurse with what looked like a tiny, crying, blood-drenched prune in her arms. It was dawn, the 13th of October, 1892.

Dr. Watson sank into a chair beside his wife and grasped her hand. If she was aware he was present, she showed no signs of it. We watched, the silence broken by the baby’s intermittent cries, as blood continued to drain from Mrs. Watson’s body. Finally, she let out a little sigh and was still. The doctor had never even had time to say goodbye.

I turned away from it all, sick at heart and to my stomach. Shame burned in my throat along with the tears that rose in my eyes. I covered my mouth with one hand, hoping to choke the sob that was threatening to escape. Behind me, I heard Dr. Watson stand and say to the nurse, “Let me hold the child.” His voice, though low and heavy with grief, sounded remarkably steady.

“It is a girl, sir,” I heard the nurse stammer.

“Yes.” I heard the doctor take a deep breath before he continued. “I shall call her Mary. Mary Elizabeth Watson, just like her mother.” At those words, I could no longer bear it and excused myself from the room. Alone in the lobby, for the first time since my estrangement from my brothers, I allowed myself tears in spite of being ashamed of them.

The next day all passed in a horrorstricken blur. The nurses and Dr. Watson cleaned the little girl up, a coroner was found, and a preliminary death certificate drawn up. The doctor bought a coffin for Mrs. Watson and a boat ticket back to England, so that he might bury her in her homeland. All through this, I stayed at Dr. Watson’s side, amazed at the change death had wrought on the man. Where his brown eyes once shimmered with humor and life, they were now dark and cold, and the lines in his face were more deeply pronounced than ever. He barely spoke to me as he prepared to return to England, but he did allow me to hold his daughter. Little Mary had the same blonde hair and dark blue eyes as her mother.

On the day the boat departed from Mumbai, I accompanied Dr. Watson to the dock. He dragged his suitcase in one hand and held Mary tightly in the other. Two men carefully loaded Mary Watson’s coffin onto the ship. As Dr. Watson turned from me, I tried to think of something to say to him. But all that I could come up with was, “I’m so sorry, John.” It was the first time I had used his Christian name.

Dr. Watson, for the first time in two days, allowed a smile to tug at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Eliza.” Carefully, he shifted Mary in his arm and hauled his loads up the gangplank without a backward glance. I watched the ship pull away from the dock and out into the sea. I remained on the dock, watching John and both Marys, one living and one dead, sail further from me until the ship was no more than a dark spot against the horizon. When I could no longer see anything but the ocean, I walked back into the fragrant, brightly colored streets of Mumbai.

Once again, I was alone.


End file.
